


Of skies, stars and collapsars

by LiliesandPomegranates



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Astre Phantomhive - Freeform, F/M, I kinda like real Ciel he's creepy, M/M, Midford naivete, Multi, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Who wants Astre butt naked in Weston?, definitely demoncest, maybe twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24981394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliesandPomegranates/pseuds/LiliesandPomegranates
Summary: After the burning of the Phantomhive manor and the death of their mother, Astre Phantomhive and his brother Ciel are saved from their cage by a strange man with a strange name. Astre is not sure ‘saved’ is the right word, not with how cold his father is acting or the strange way his brother is looking at him, now.Not when the butler with sanguine eyes knows exactly how to find him wherever he dares to go. Not when he sees shadows dancing behind the man, and dreams of blood and viscera.Or Vincent Phantomhive survived and made a contract with one hell of a butler, involving his broken sons in his desire for retribution.
Relationships: Ciel Phantomhive/Undertaker, Rachel Phantomhive/Vincent Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive, Vincent Phantomhive & Undertaker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	1. Corrupted

It was in the way his wide blue eyes sometimes sparkled, not as bright as it had _before_ , just…different. Like a skin shaded too late, far too tight on the little bones and mind. And then it was gone, as soon as it came to the surface, and his lips would stretch with a kindness and a warmth his clear liquid irises never really showed anymore. An illusion for the world to see and acknowledge, and be happy with.

Nobody liked broken things, after all.

A loud snap in front of him made him squeak quite embarrassingly, and the severe gaze of the woman softened after a couple of seconds. It was not pity per say, but it irked him nonetheless.

“Jeune Maître, vous n’êtes pas attentif. » _Young Master, you are not paying attention._

“I wasn-…” the narrowing, birdlike eyes made him gulp soundlessly, and he bowed his head slightly to the side, his own eyes cast humbly towards the book in front of him, hoping against all hope she had seen _nothing_ “Je m’excuse, Madame”.

A sigh then, and the unmistakable sound of the chair rattling the soft plushiness of the carpet. He resisted the urge to close his eyes. She _had_ seen, and now…A warm hand fell over his and he instinctively withdrew it, wild blue eyes piercing and the beginning of a snarl on his lips. The gesture seemed to surprise her, still, and it shook her to the core every time, that harsh glare in such pretty blue eyes, the _pain_ she knew was there, behind the cold façade and softness he put on most of the time.

But again, she _knew_. The little boy’s father had made sure she did, way before his offer had been sent to her. How he had known, how he had dared to search had infuriated her at first, but she needed to work, and meeting two sets of sapphire blue eyes, guarded and haunted had drowned whatever ire burnt inside her. She _knew_.

It broke every single principle she had to respect propriety and not take the boy in her arms and tell him just that, but it wasn’t her place, it wasn’t her son, and she would just have to be more careful next time he seemed to go back into his shell.

But that pain…

“I think we’ll stop with the lesson for today, you made a lot of progress already, and there is no need to rush.” Her warm hand hovered again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be touching someone else, but she just put it on the book to slide it towards her, and Astre released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Chest tight, throat aching, he said nothing and sank further in his leather armchair, averting his eyes from hers to settle it on the elaborate mantlepiece on his left. He felt her staring, and it brought such an itch on his fair skin, all that pity and understanding, all that _caring_ , that he wanted nothing more but to get rid of it with a knife, throw the bloody parts of him at her feet and tell her to stare to her hearts’ content.

She left the room with a bow, and he huddled closer to the fire, legs curling against his chest, shivering from a cold not even the massive fireplace could subdue. If only it could just swallow him whole and be done with it…

It was the delicious smell of chocolate cake that woke him up, face warm from the fire and cranky muscles protesting at being used again. He was sure to find it on a plate just in front of him, a glorious thing to behold, and he was raising his hand to take it when his sleepy eyes met strangely glowing red ones.

Instantly, he backed in his seat, heart thumping loudly, fingers twitching and bile heavy at the back of his throat. He knew that feeling well. Fear.

The butler was smiling. An unpleasant little thing that stretched his lips across his face, as if he had known how to do it a long time ago, and put all of his efforts into remembering how to do it again. Unpleasant, and scary. Dangerous. Like a cat playing with his diner a little longer after the first bite.

Astre didn’t like cats.

He straightened himself in a parody of appearing composed, crossing his legs and putting his still trembling hands on them, aware the butler knew exactly how much of a farce it all was, but determined not to let that…that… _man_ get the upper hand.

Never again.

*

“What do you want Sebastian?”

Ah, Sebastian thought, we’ve decided for icy today. The smile spread a little more on his face, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Young Master, you missed diner, again. Your brother sent me to see where you might be hiding…” The pretty little thing shivered imperceptibly at the mention of his dear, dear sibling, and the very notion had him biting the inside of his cheek to avoid the smile turning into a full blown laugh. So he wasn’t blind either…How interesting, really…What if..? Oh, would he dare? Of course he would.

“…And your father is waiting for you in his office.” Not a lie, exactly, he was sure it had crossed Vincent’s mind to go nagging at his youngest offspring with that piercing tongue of his. Tonight was the tenth diner Astre Phantomhive had missed in a month, and he would have wept in sorrow -had he been able to _feel_ sorrow, as his absence had soured an otherwise perfectly prepared meal. The one he’s put on the table, of course.

As for the other one…

His eyes didn’t leave the lithe form of the youngest twin, absently noting the way he passed by him, subtly manoeuvring to be sure he wouldn’t come close to the butler on his way out of the library, leaving behind him that faint, alluring scent of pomegranate, a sweet, _sweet_ bitterness that followed his every steps and had Sebastian flaring his nostrils before he could help it.

It wasn’t ambrosia, by far, but something to put on your tongue and wait for it to just melt and charm your taste buds into satisfaction. What kind of demon wouldn’t make a fine meal out of this pretty little doe-ish thing? All frail limbs and wide eyes, shivering in fear and burning in a pit of anger so deep Sebastian was sure it could carve a new circle in the depths of Hell.

He followed the boy through the maze of hallways silently, his gaze never far from the tense shoulders and neck. A pale, delicate column of white flesh that hadn’t decided yet if it wanted to belong to a child or a man, stuck in between those options and deciding for both. Smooth, baby skin on a very decided set of narrow shoulders. A little bird trying to pass out as an eagle, he mused, a smirk firmly in place as he loomed closer to that fine patch of skin.

“Are you not needed in the kitchens, dog ?” called a deceptively sweet voice when they turned a corner to stand in front of the Earl’s office door, and Sebastian’s eyes swept from one twin to the other, his face carefully blank.

Impeccable as always, Ciel Phantomhive stood there, face open and smiling at the sight of his brother, less so when his butler appeared behind him. His blue eyes changed from a calm blue sea to a very sharpiceberg willing to gut him. That version of the twins looked far more like an eagle trying to pass for a little bird, and Sebastian bowed once before turning back, and headed towards the kitchens. Not without giving the child a knowing, pointy look, one that would have made any man blush in shame but didn’t affect Ciel beside fuelling this dark something lurking in that rotten little heart of his.

Phantomhives, he mused, really needed to understand that sticking to your nature was far more comfortable than putting on a suit. And Sebastian knew that more than any creature, living or not. It was, after all, a talent mere mortals could never achieve, as entertaining as it was to see them try.

He nodded at Tanaka, old, wise and silent Tanaka sipping on a cup of tea while supervising their troublesome maid, following the butler with his keen, wrinkly eyes of his, before going into his own office to try and relax a couple of minutes. The itch on his hand wasn’t unpleasant, but it grated on something primal inside him, a leash his very nature both understood and despised, and his encounter with the twins made tendrils of shadows inside him twirl and lash out on walls he kept carefully up. Until the day he was paid in full came, that is.

He closed his eyes and thought of theirs. Pretty blue gemstones encased in pretty white skin. Corrupted to their very core. Had their father known, would he have made the deal? Sign the contract binding them all ? Of course he would have, he scoffed, he had no other option benefiting him at the moment. Vincent Phantomhive was a highly intelligent man, cunning as demon and sweet as arsenic. Selfish.

The grin was back in place, and in his little office, with the door closed on the rest of the staff, he allowed himself a little crooning sound while light was suffocated and the room adjusted to his beloved and long lost peace in endless darkness. Selfish and smart, yes, but how badly did he formulate his rules…

This time, he didn’t stop the laugh from bubbling forth.

*

“Ciel, you can leave.”

The tone was unmistakable, calm, controlled, but so cold, and Ciel studied the man in front of him, not moving from Astre’s side. Darker tresses than theirs, a pale face with a perpetual lift of a corner of his mouth, a knowing smirk etched into his very flesh by fire. Vincent Phantomhive was no less stunning though, but the ghost of scarred skin on the side of his face, under that silken eyepatch, gave him a far more sinister look than what was deemed acceptable for the Phantomhive family. Still, he did not move.

The moment Astre had opened the door, he had taken his hand and faced their father with him, standing straight on the lush carpet, eyes boring into the single blue one of their last remaining parent. He knew the butler would never resist the call of a good face to face between sons and father, more so when Astre would be the sole focus of the monologue Vincent died to inflict upon them. Ciel had been ready, waiting outside the office when he was sure the butler had gone to fetch his little brother from whatever hole he had crawled into after his French lesson. He had seen Mrs Dubois leaving the room with a worried frown, clenching her pudgy fingers around a poetry book. Reminiscing most likely. Hidden in the shadows of a heavy, velvet curtain, blanketed by the dark clouds outside the windows, he had watched the woman turn to open the door of the library again and try, _again_ , to make his brother _talk_. But she had decided against it and went on her way, easing the white fury claiming and churning his guts.

‘Leave him alone’, he wanted to spat at the retreating back. ‘Leave my brother alone. _My_ _brother_. Mine. Mine Mine. Mine.’

**MINE**

“That was not a request, Ciel. Leave, and close the door behind you, your brother and I have a lot to talk about together” A dismissal, as simple as that, like _he_ was a servant. Was that how Astre felt every time they excluded him from this very office to…work? How peculiar a sensation, to be found wanting. He didn’t move.

“Whatever you need to talk about I’m s-“ he began, squeezing the slim fingers intertwined with his own, before the pen his father was writing with was silently put aside and all of the Earl’s attention was on his oldest son. His Heir, Ciel had to remind himself under the frosty glare of their father.

“Out.”

More than the single word, it was the hand escaping his own that hurt the most. Astre hadn’t move either, but his shoulders were tense and his hand, warmed by brotherly affection, was now curled in a fist. He saw the faint glimmer of sweat on the side of the boy’s neck, his blue eyes, looking at their father instead of him, glued to the man like he detained all the answers. Ciel relaxed his jaw as best as he could, and exited the room without another word, making sure the door was safely shut behind him before strolling to his private suite. The one he’d been forced to use not long after that beast had found them. His fingers burned, and he kept his hand in his pocket the whole way. He had a letter to write, after all.

*

Inside the office, none had said another word upon the oldest twin’s departure. Vincent had seized his pen to go back to reviewing his accounting books, and Astre stood there silently, unmoving, unsure as to where to put himself. When he was younger, before everything around him collapsed and he found out that love and happiness and joy were as real as the Snow Queen, and adults a burning, scorching, wound-inflicting plague of lies, before all that, Vincent would have stopped everything to crouch in front of his son, put his warm hand in his hair and talk about health and needs and cuddles. Now his father ignored his very presence. Like everybody else did. Like he meant nothing more than a rat in a cage. But he did. He would make sure he did. His fencing lessons would make sure he did, even if his aunt wore her doubt like a shawl and Edward kept on striking him with his pity as much as he did with his sword.

“You have to stop retreating in your head, Astre” The voice was careful, nearly soft, but Vincent didn’t look up at him. “You need to face us.”

“For me to do that, I would have to see your face first, Father” Astre spat, his never ending anger flared by such…such…hypocrisy ! But that did it, and Vincent finally met his son’s glare, eyes a little too shiny with unshed tears, but proud in any way that count. How far had he gone for this child, to be reminded daily it was all for nothing, in the end…

Rachel was dead. Her sister, the last thing not tainted by Phantomhive blood, dead, shot in the heart by Vincent himself after the whole Ripper thing. And his sons…

“Still, young man, you’ll behave like the Phantomhive you are” he softened his voice as much as he could, but left no room for argument “I can’t do what needs to be done for our family if I spend my time being harassed by personnel and tutors alike about you. You need to get a grip on yourself, Astre, because our very lives depend on it.”

It was harsh on a mind as soft as the little boy had, but he needed him to understand at some point that _this_ was not a game he could lose at _again_. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his second son and busied himself with his accounting book until he heard the door falling shut. Rain hit the windows now, and he pushed everything before him aside, a tired hand ripping the eyepatch from his face before allowing himself to reach for the glass of whisky he hadn’t touch since coming in.

He saw it from the corner of his good eye, the vibrant, purple sigil of his contract, reflected on the glass. His skin had receded nicely from over it after lots of care on his part, but the damage was done. He scoffed at himself and bottomed the amber liquid in one gulp, snapping it back on the mahogany desk. He was littered with burnt marks, scarred to the point of having to keep gloves on, even in the company of his own children, and yet, the worst of those so-called damages were not on him. He had seen them, when _Sebastian_ had brought them back to the restored manor, after three weeks of searching Hell, Heavens and everything in between. He had been pumped full on laudanum to withstand the pain, but his orders had been met and he had wanted to make sure it was _them_. That his House had not fail, that _he_ had not. And he had _seen_ them.

Ciel, first, because deep down, he had always known that if Rachel favoured Astre, he himself looked at Ciel more than he did his youngest. He had shuddered under the steel of his glare, little bare arms holding firmly on his brother’s thin frame, famished, beaten, raped. Defiled in every way and determined to take it all for the scrawny thing he held so tightly against him Sebastian had to break his fingers for him to let go of Astre. And even then, he barely whimpered, but snapped at the demon with words and teeth until Tanaka could take a hold of the unresponsive, youngest twin and put him on the floor of the bathroom to clean the wounds all over his body, leaving Sebastian to take care of Ciel. Vincent had stayed and counted every one of them, on both his sons bodies, and it fuelled his rage every time it sipped into his busy mind, how those pigs had dared touch those flawless little fawns of his, now broken beyond repair. He had asked Ann to try, as a medical expert and a woman, but Ciel had kept searching for his brother, and Astre had taken to retreating in his mind, where even gentle, old Tanaka couldn’t reach. Undertaker had looked at him, surprise all over his handsome face, when he had asked if nothing could be done for the boys. The man had laughed, a cringy thing, throat tight, and given him a broken jar on one of his shelves, empty but for the lasting ashes of some unfortunate soul. No.

And then, there was the problem of Sebastian.

He had appointed him to Ciel’s service as well as his own, made sure his cover story was seamless. He had seen the look in Astre’s eyes the first time he had seen the demon and had put in on the boy’s natural shyness, amplified by his…experience...with the Cult. But then he had looked at the demon and his heart had stopped for a second at the covetous stare, the sheer _hunger_ in those sanguine eyes. It had taken everything in him to ignore it at that moment, and, as far as he knew -hoped really, it had never happened again. Sebastian knew the rules of their contract. They had negotiated the terms for a long time, him, bedridden, enveloped in bandages and sticky herb plasters, and the demon sitting at his side, shadows waltzing around them, the dead body of Diedrich oozing blood on the floor of Undertaker’s shop. Sebastian knew the rules, but nobody was there with him, in the church, when he had found the boys. What he knew of the events were from the demon’s report after the shock of seeing his sons, the children themselves refused to talk about any of it, and who better than the Earl of Phantomhive to know you don’t necessarily tell the truth when you don’t tell lies ?

Something about Sebastian had Astre taking a step back each time they were in the same room, and if that beast had _dared_ to show his true form to the traumatised child…

Thunder roared loudly above the manor, and Vincent put the eyepatch back in place, his trembling hands fretting one last time over his hair before he found his way out, where the carriage awaited for him, Sebastian posted by the main doors with his coat, cane and hat. He saw the demon’s gaze turn upwards with a half-smile once he sat on the cushioned bench in front of the Earl, and the latter gave the order to depart immediately, hissing at the _beast_ to behave. He didn’t need to look back at the manor to know where Sebastian had spotted something of interest.

He knew Astre had probably been in front of his room’s windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I've had that...thing bugging me from the moment my eyes opened and had to write it. Talk about an itch you can't scratch...  
> Anyway ! Thanks to all those who took time to read / comment / insult / beg / love / sell their soul to a demon to see if the sex is as fantastic as we all hope it is.
> 
> For those who wondered about the name of our favourite non-heir to the Phantomhive estate, I've read a story a couple of days ago, and the name 'Astre' literally baffled me. It was just perfect, and along the lines of what I had imagined myself while reading the whole story, so I chose to keep that one, so that Ciel has a pretty clone of himself with a pretty name. I'll try to find out where i read it and post the link to the story in the next notes!
> 
> I have a vague idea of where this is going, so...yay me, i guess ?
> 
> Chu


	2. Sweet dreams

His ankle had been bleeding.

_Blood. Blood. Blood_

He wanted to cough. The smell of piss, rust and old sweat clang to the cage. His brother’s hand on his shoulder.

_Warm. Precious. More._

Yells and cheers all around them, the clinking of glasses. Masks.

_Fear. Bile in his throat._

Then a hand, no, several greedy hands on his neck, his arms and his legs, strong fingers tightening around delicate bones and tired muscles.

_No, please no, leave me, let me stay with him !_

He had just known. He was going to die. Terrified, speechless, and Ciel would be all alone. His eyes couldn’t leave the little boy’s face, his tears, his mouth screaming and his little hands kicking the bars.

_Ciel ! Help me !_

Cold stone under him, a wake-up call, and whatever was left of his meagre forces had been used to free his legs, fighting, biting, screaming for them to let him go.

_I want to go home ! I don’t want to die !_

Trying to reach for his brother, little arms extended towards each other.

_Ciel !_

He had seen the rage on his brother’s face turn to absolute horror, had seen from the corner of his eyes the knife plunging towards his chest.

_I don’t want to die here…_

Then the room had turned black, the screams suffocated by darkness.

_I don’t want to die here…_

When he had opened his eyes again, he was in the arms of his brother, and everything around them was red. His skin, their tattered clothes, the floor, the stairs…

_I want to disappear…_

His brother was shaking, pulling him even closer, sobbing. Their foreheads meeting. A chaste joining of sticky lips through pitiful whimpers. He had found it odd, at the time, because Ciel never cried like this. Ciel was brave. Ciel could go outside to play with Elizabeth.

_I want this to stop._

A gurgling sound above them, on the altar. The deformed face of a woman, one eye gauged and hanging towards them, neck cut deeply. He absentmindedly realised she was the reason he had been drenched in red.

_/Well, well…/_

Perched on the body, something watching. An endless void of darkness, a heartbeat drowning the screeching and pleas stuck between stone walls. It had no eyes, but it _looked at them_ , at _him_. Focused, reaching for something inside with a clawed hand. He hadn’t been sure whom, of Ciel or him, had whimpered in fear.

_/What do we have here ?/_

Suddenly, there had been too many eyes and the air had smelt of brimstone.

*

His eyes were open, and he _knew_ he was staring at the canopy of his bed, he did, but the silhouette was still there, looking down at him. Its shadowy claws staining the velvet curtains, its breath shallow and rumbling, its everything fixed on him, and all Astre could do was to fight for his next breath, paralysed, voice forgotten. _This is it_ , he thought, _this is it…_

But the remnant his nightmare left his vision gradually, and he rolled on his side as fast as he could, throwing up on the mattress, panting, gripping the bedding until his knuckles ached as much as his sore throat. He feared his asthma had kicked in again for the first time in years, but as he took in his surroundings with panic-filled eyes, he felt his lungs expanding normally again after a couple of painful minutes.

Tears had gathered on his cheeks, and he wiped them angrily with his sleeve, trying to ignore the stench of vomit on his pillows. He was shaking, sweating, and his modest sleeping attire clung to him like a disgusting second skin.

He jumped down from the mattress and onto the stool Tanaka left for him on shaky legs, sighing in relief when they supported him better than he thought. The carpet wasn’t cold per say, but his restless sleep often left him with a feverish body, before the cold claimed him again. Aunt Ann had told him once it was his mind trying to adjust, but his body had always failed him, so it came as no real surprise for him.

His feet padded slowly towards the bathroom, a slight ray of moonlight reflecting on the marbled floor guiding him. He should have called for Tanaka. His bedsheets needed changing, _he_ needed changing, and another bath. He needed to move back to his bed and call. The old man wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t pry, and maybe, at the end of it, would he be allowed a cup of honeyed milk. He needed-

“Are you trying to catch a cold?”

Astre turned back so fast towards the door he bumped into the chair Tanaka used to cut his hair, its fall reverberating inside the tiled room far too loudly. Blood pounding fast in his ears, remnants of his terror that had twisted his entrails into knots, he took in the sight of his brother in his sleeping gown, a frown marring his forehead in a worried expression. But there was no sleep in his eyes, and Astre could guess as to why. Without really intending to, he stared right above his brother’s shoulder, rooted to the ground, searching for a pair of white gloves and piercing, bloody eyes.

“I need to take a bath” the youngest said after a moment, trying to keep the shaking -the weakness- in his voice in control. He turned his back to Ciel, “Can you call for Tanaka please? I don’t-…”

His hands were trembling slightly when he wiped at his eyes again unconsciously “I don’t think I can make it back to bed tonight.” His voice faltered at the end, and Astre closed his eyes, mortified. His cheeks bore a reddish hue, anger and embarrassment fighting to constrict his chest a little more than it already was. How disappointingly weak he was...

“No.”

“I’m n-… I’m not in the mood for an argument, Ciel. Please, “and this time, he couldn’t hold back the sobs strangling him, “Please call !”

“And again, no.” Ciel countered, arms already reaching for the trembling body of his twin, encircling his thin shoulders, his forehead resting gently against the mop of sweaty tresses reeking so much of fear.

“I’m staying with you.”

A squeeze around his torso while he adjusted, Astre’s clammy cheek against his own, pressed against each other to the point none knew which one was really shaking.

“I’ll run the bath for you. I know how to do it, I’ve watched the servants,” he cut his brother’s protest before it even passed the pouty, mistreated lips, “I’ll take care of you, and then we’ll call for the bedding to be changed.”

With Astre’s nails digging into the soft skin of his hand, Ciel knew his little brothers’ mind had finally settled for anger.  
  


Good.

*

The shivering had calmed down, soothed by warm water and scented salts. Cold little fingers had stopped griping the bathtub like they wanted to break it. The delicate expanse of his neck was stretched towards him, pale, soft, and Ciel smiled.

He was an idiot. Those fingers were the same that rubbed and massaged through the thick tresses of his brother’s hair, short, silky ropes buried under white bubbles, smelling of citrus and mint. That pale neck he had been watching for too long wasn’t that different from his own. The shivering in his own bones hadn’t stopped, though.

He was an idiot.

But it was calming his nerves to do something so simple, so unlike his uptight upbringing, and he was determined to appreciate every second of it. Astre laid in the bathtub, as relaxed as he could be under Ciel’s careful ministrations, baring himself of his fears and tears, letting Ciel _care_. He had missed it. Missed him. And that peaceful feeling was already fighting the dread of having to go back to his empty bed, in that lonely room.

When they had been tall enough to hop down their own beds without falling too hard, they had learned to climb into their twins’, giggling and cooing at each other until sleep claimed them or Tanaka moved them back where they were supposed to be for their parent’s midnight tour of the nursery. They always fought for the privilege of being the big spoon, and Ciel had won every single contest until the manor was burned to the ground.

He rinsed Astre’s hair, wetting his unsuspecting face in the process and earning himself half-drowned curses. He used what little time he had for Astre to stop the assault of remaining bubbles on his eyes to quickly shed his sleeping gown, throwing it far away to avoid getting it in a puddle. He felt more than he saw the stiffness in his brothers’ shoulders as he climbed in the tub, the warm water doing wonders on his frozen toes. He sat himself facing his sibling, one eyebrow elegantly raised, daring him to get him out. His twin said nothing but turned his face away.

It would have been simpler if Astre had died that night…

At least he would have been able to understand why he was feeling so…dejected. Why, when they had been through the same hardships, it was with him that Astre seemed to be tiptoeing around. Not their father, their cousins or their bloody seamstress for heaven’s sake! _Him_.

He had to do something about that distance before their father sent them to London.

Oh, he had not missed a bit of that _private_ conversation with Aunt Frances and that ridiculous husband of hers when they last visited. They wanted the twins sent to Weston by the end of summer. They wanted them to make new connections through the privileged progeny of Britain’s elite. They wanted them _apart_ , wanted the Heir as far away as possible from the chaos that was the Spare. Father had told him, long ago, about the Houses and the fake brotherhood and if at the time, little Ciel had declared it useless, now, with everything that had happened, the very idea gave him ideas even his butler would find distasteful.

He knew where his own fame and reputation would be made, and it wouldn’t be with Astre. The boy was too impulsive, too honest. He wouldn’t have passed the gates by a foot that he would be dragged away from his twin to be crowned and worshipped for his beauty and his talent with a violin. He was proud of Astre, had always been, but if it meant others would take him away, he would have to intervene. Even more so when there was the risk of artists trying to lure him to pose. Or _admirers_.

No.

They wouldn’t get separated again. He’d have Sebastian burn that damned school and everyone inside it.

He didn’t even pretend it was for his twin’s sake. Even his little brother couldn’t possibly understand how _he_ had felt, watching them take him away. Drag him out of the cage. The sheer despair. The horror. The prayer for anything to save the little boy that looked so much like him and was yet so different.

The shame of thinking ‘thank God it’s not me’.

He had pissed on the crucifix their late governess had left on the wall, in the wardrobe of his private rooms. It lacked elegance, but God must have received the message loud and clear, if the demon sprawling around the estate hadn’t been enough.

And Astre still avoided staring at him. Even as Ciel stroke his ankles underwater with lazy brushes of his fingers. He genuinely wanted to move closer, to grab his face in his palms and comfort him. Slap him so hard his pouty lips oozed blood. Lick it from his chin to make it better.

“Did you ever wish for me to have been killed, in the church?”

Tired blue eyes finally met his, taken aback. Bony fingers stopped from drumming on the soft porcelain. Astre wet his lips before his stare hardened, and his face went blank.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Why?”

Silence.

The delicate muscles of his calf moved slowly under Ciel’s fingers, and he ignored the not so gentle swooshing of water on the tiles as the leg tried to retreat from his touch. He tightened his grip on the limb, tilting his head, waiting for and answer he had known the moment he learnt the meaning of the word ‘heir’.

“Why?”

“Because then, they would have had a reason to ignore me, to treat me like I’m dispensable. The worst kind of vermin.”

_My sweet, sweet fool of a brother._

He let go of the leg and finally moved, letting himself fall on his twin, rolling as much as he could in the large bathtub to settle against his side, scarred flesh against scarred flesh. He settled his face in the hollow of his neck, like he did so long ago in their sleep, eyes closed, content. His brother hadn’t stopped him, or recoiled at the blatant display of unwanted affection, and he felt elated.

“You’re not a vermin, Astre. _They_ are.”

The lithe body against his own was smaller than he remembered. Or maybe he was getting taller. He would have to talk to Tanaka about letting his twin starve himself.

“I will protect you from them all, you know?”

Against him, Astre swallowed down the lump stuck in his throat. He knew his brother’s touch better than he knew his own, knew it was _meant_ to be as innocent as Ciel would have had him believe.

But he could still feel the shadow lurking somewhere near, whispering, taunting, and no amount of tenderness or bubbles could block out the phantom pain of being _pierced_ , suffocated by grabby hands and lulled to numbness by promises of wonders and _there, yes, good boy, take take take_.

The cold came back, and warm water wouldn’t be able to dull that one.

*

He often wondered why mortals deemed his kind incapable of feelings. It was what had pushed them to war, after all, and the scandalous vision of those two little carbon copies soaking wet -and in their most honest apparel, mind you, did wonders to his heart. Young, yes, and very much so, but rare were the creatures that weren’t in his eyes, and the Phantomhive twins were _adorable_ creatures. Venomous claws and snowy skin.

He kept perfectly motionless, hidden in the shadows of the threshold, red eyes mesmerized by the temptation of silky smooth flesh and night terrors, tongue picking out every so often to wet his dry lips as much as his appetite.

He had heard the boy call to him in his sleep, panting, gasping for breath, little heart shaking with fear, and oh…how it had burned to let him soak in his fluids. But he had been otherwise busy at the moment, his hand glowing purple and his master calling for his undivided attention.

But it was always there, not even buried, just sleeping until a whiff of pomegranate crossed his path in the hallways, on a forgotten book in the library, sometimes even on his own skin. And when it sparked to life…

Hunger.

Temptation.

That bloody contract.

Thunder in the ribcage of this pathetic vessel, barely able to contain the _craving_. That unbearable need to touch and possess and _destroy_. To take apart. To savour blood and tears like the finest vintage, draped in the shivering embrace of something so small and fragile and _his_.

Let the boy think his threats hold power.

Let the Master believe he holds the leash.

Patience.

Sebastian smirked, inhaling one last time that sinful perfume of corruption rolling in waves from the bathroom, eyelids closing and toes curling.

A sigh.

Diner was going to be fantastic.

*

Vincent had abandoned the idea of sleeping in his bed long before Rachel ‘s death. It had worried her at first, and he sometimessurprised himself by thinking of her warm little hands on his shoulders, trying to work out the tension in his battered body. How many bruises and cuts had that fair skinned angel treated in the middle of the night?

Even if she knew, she cared. She always did, and it had been the sole reason he had chosen her over a dozen of pretty, noble girls. She would die protecting those she cared about. And she did just that. For nothing, in the end, but at least she tried. He still respected her immensely for that.

The faint sliding of the covers brought him out of his reverie, but he didn’t turn around. There was no threat. Not in this room, right now, at least.

A raspy chuckle welcomed him when he returned to the bed where Rachel had so painfully brought his sons into the world. Where he had loved her, in his own way.

But her life had served its purpose. And _this one_ would too.

As always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, again !  
> Work has been Hell, and not even the fun or sexy kind. Just pure evil and deadlines. *sigh*
> 
> BUT here is chapter 2, I hope you liked it enough to wait for chapter 3. I'm pretty sure I'll be dead from stress in a about a week or two, but I wanna finish this before it drives me crazy. How am I supposed to focus on HR reports when I think "hey, let's make Astre open his little mouth on a very willing butler"?
> 
> Oh, and the story I talked about in the last notes was Purge, from ChromeHoplite. 
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me, I have a coffin to crawl into...


	3. A dog's loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~
> 
> After the burning of the Phantomhive manor and the death of their mother, Astre Phantomhive and his brother Ciel are saved from their cage by a strange man with a strange name. Astre is not sure ‘saved’ is the right word, not with how cold his father is acting or the strange way his brother is looking at him, now.
> 
> Not when the butler with sanguine eyes knows exactly how to find him wherever he dares to go. Not when he sees shadows dancing behind the man, and dreams of blood and viscera.
> 
> Or Vincent Phantomhive survived and made a contract with one hell of a butler, involving his broken sons in his desire for retribution.
> 
> ~

His arm was shaking, the burnt muscles strained under bandages and the efforts it took. People underestimated the force needed to properly break a bone, the determination one had to possess to make sure the blade tore through flesh without stopping on a rib until you could feel the punctured lung. He had never been one to fawn over difficulty. And he had received a -nearly- fatal wound first-hand already.

So it took him by surprise, that deep, scorching pain twisting his chest, the tell-tale sting in his eyes. He hadn’t cried when his parents had died, when it all came crashing down on him. The responsibilities, the duty, the honour. The endless sacrifices. But his throat constricted around the words, refused to let him take more than a shaky breath, hands painted in blood still clutching the hilt of the dagger, buried deep in his best friend’s chest. He had felt his heart stop, had supported the dead weight of Diedrich on him, face buried in his soft hair. 

He was _so_ sorry…

But he needed to avenge them all. Save whatever could be. Find the boys.

He had crawled to a window and seen the little bodies being taken away before losing consciousness. He knew he didn’t have much time before everything he had fought for all his life was destroyed. He had made a choice. He had made another sacrifice, and now, he mourned the only friend he ever had.

_/I see./_

Diedrich fell from him onto the floor with a loud thud, unseeing eyes still holding that petrified, mixed expression of genuine astonishment and betrayal. Tendrils of shadows danced over his body, pushing him away, _disposing_ of him.

_I am so sorry, my old friend…_

_/So, Earl of Phantomhive…Shall we talk about my…compensation now? /_

The silhouette changed again, black feathers grooming themselves into a ridiculously shiny mane over blood red eyes, one long, leather-clad leg crossing on the other once the creature took place in the armchair, crowned by the fire behind it. Its smile held no sympathy, and Vincent was too tired to feel fear. He had been beyond it the moment he stabbed Diedrich.

_/Your expectations have been stated clearly, but you seem to believe your soul alone is payment enough for the goal you have in mind./_

Clawed hands played with the bloody dagger, sanguine eyes multiplied around them as darkness crept all over the room, weighing its options, surveying the prey.

_/And I can assure you, it isn’t./_

“What…is your price ?”

A feral grin.

_/Well, My Lord…/_

~

He woke up with a gasp, pale cheeks flushed to a bright, painful pink and nauseous. His nightgown was clinging to his trembling frame, his bed was a mess of covers and linens thrown haphazardly around the mattress, and it took him a couple of minutes to realise the hands holding his thighs apart were his own. He stared at them unblinkingly, breath still uneven, brain clouded with the images his dream had forced on it. He could still feel him. _Them_.

Everywhere.

Shame dropped down on him and he quickly put his hands on his mouth to avoid vomiting whatever little diner he had on himself. It took far longer than he liked to steady himself and avoid making a mess like last time, but it was a small mercy in itself. He didn’t want to remember _that_. The smell of grown men, the putrid scent of the mattress they forced his nose into. The things they did.

The things they had made him do.

He grabbed the cord and called for Tanaka, bony fingers aching from the phantom pain of grasping onto anything and _do it, yes, yes yes good boy ! Faster !_

The door creaked open and a frowning Tanaka entered the room silently, visibly confused at having the boy awake before dawn. He didn’t comment on it though, and after a careful once over he went straight to the bathroom, staying there as long as his young master needed to find his composure.

Deep breath. They were all dead.

_Faster boy !_

They were _dead_.

But Astre could still feel their taste at the back of his throat, smell the wine they poured on him, burning his wounds, making his skin stick to theirs. To Ciel’s. Clouding his vision, numbing his tongue until he tasted only bile, stale sweat and _them._ Always _them_. And with taste came the soreness of his throat, hoarse from begging, his jaw’s muscles aching, his shoulders shaking from supporting his malnourished frame for hours. The despair tearing him apart every time he was forced to watch Ciel take his place.

Though with it also came back the rage, incandescent and unforgiving, the will to remember their faces, just for the pleasure of hunting them down when he would be free, to do to every single person they loved _everything_ they had done to them both. To make them beg and then drown them in their bloody champagne.

_Would you really ?_

Yes.

Yes he would. He would make them pay for what they did to him.

What they made of him…How could they…

“Young Master ?”

His anger burned bright in his chest, all-consuming, setting fire to his lungs, shaking his entire frame, teary eyes fixed on his lap, on his parted thighs and the unsufferable sight of unblemished skin on delicate muscles. Like it never happened anywhere else but in his head. How could Ciel look at himself and claw at his milky skin until it was a mess of gore and blood? How could he wake up every day and be so damn _in control_? How dared they all look at _him_ and feel only pity, _sympathy_ , when they should be livid from that same scorching anger boiling their blood, shattering their bones?

“Young Master ? Your ba-…”

“Silence.”

“Excu-…” began the careful reply, but it died on the man’s tongue when he looked at the boy on the bed, red cheeks burning bright against pale skin, teary, cobalt eyes hardened by something far too primitive to be only hate.

“I don’t want to hear another word Tanaka ! You may go ! I didn’t need you after all!” the boy snarled, tears escaping his lashes to roll miserably down clammy cheeks and neck. “Go!”

Tanaka uncharacteristically gaped at him, eyes round, shocked. His hands had immediately raised in front of his chest, seemingly to try and placate him. Astre leaped forward on his hands and knees, gripping the sheets as tightly as he wanted to grip the poor man’s neck. A familiar softness crossed the old man’s eyes, the beginning of that look he so detested, and something in him roared in fury, close to just _snap_.

He turned around to grip a huge pillow and threw it at his butler’s face. Astre was frail and by no means as strong as a boy his age should have been, but the violence was felt nonetheless, and Tanaka stumbled backwards, traces of pity swallowed by a new emotion he never associated with the youngest Phantomhive : cautiousness.

“I said GO!”

He knew he was a mess. He knew Grandpa didn’t deserve any of his hire, that he only wanted to…to what? Care? Help? He saw affection in his eyes sometimes, felt it in the way he gave him as much privacy as he needed without having to be asked, warmth when he lost himself a little too much. He was family. He was kind.

It should have made him ashamed, to take it on the old man, but right now he was _here_ when Astre wanted him _away_.

“GET THE BLOODY HELL OUT!”

Breathless, trembling, the boy laid back down in the middle of the remaining pillows, glaring through the remnant of his tears at the door after it clicked close behind his butler, the curt bow he was given before the man retreated to the corridor surely being their last interaction for the day. If not at all.

He was alone.

He shouldn’t have screamed.

He covered his eyes with his trembling palms, throat hoarse from trying to keep it all in, chest constricted by the violent desire to either sob or scream his lungs out. Neither option offered long-lasting satisfaction and he had ridiculed himself enough already. An asthma attack on top of his pathetic, childish tantrum would make for a glorious morning after such a terrible reminder of his worthlessness as far as his House was concerned.

Tanaka wouldn’t say a word to anybody about what just happened, he was by far too discreet and good at his work, but someone might have heard the commotion and reported it to his father. Or worse…His brother. Ciel could be awake already, perfect little Heir that he was, and Astre knew he would search for him if he heard about it, unable to resist the urge to suffocate him with much more grace and agility than asthma could.

And with Ciel here, _he_ would naturally follow, calculating, maroon eyes taking everything in to plan as meticulously as possible a grand finale Astre was afraid to witness, for he was certain it would mean his own demise. Just as he had known what awaited him in the church at that time, he knew it now, felt the shudders rippling through him every time they were in each other’s presence.

He knew the butler spied on him. Be it for the two other Phantomhives or his own agenda, he felt his gaze linger, disdain on his smirking lips and malice in his eyes. 

He scared him. The shadows wavering in his path, the intensity in those eyes when they held his and raised goosebumps on his skin. That peculiar glint he had only ever seen _then_ , back scraped by the dirty floor and legs wide around protruding bellies.

Hunger.

It _scared_ him yet it wrecked whatever dignity he had left.

What a pathetic, wounded little boy he truly was…

After a few shallow breaths, he wiggled down the soft mountain of pillow to lay properly on his back, face still hidden in his hands. Fatigue and tendrils of anguish were poking at his sanity, again, tearing decaying strips to feed something festering deep inside him.

He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to _know_.

But he did.

_Broken little freak…_

He could picture it easily, the soft porcelain curve of his hips escaping the veil of his nightgown, leaving him exposed from waist down. Toes curled on the sheets, the sweat glistening on his thighs, now tightly shut to try and lessen the shameful sight of his sex bending towards his navel, half hard from a nightmare he seemed to still live in, even wide awake. What would have Aunt Ann thought? And his father?

A shiver.

What would Ciel do if he knew…

A twitch.

_Pitiful, dirty nobody…_

He refused to touch himself. He refused to even consider that option.

Though, sometimes, when the nightmares made him too raw and he tiptoed on the edge of consciousness, he watched shadows dance around him, taunting him, licking at his too frail members to slither away at the last second. In those moments, when the phantom pains cramped his thighs and the taste of champagne lingered on his tongue, all he could think about was that maybe, just maybe, all he had to do was to give in…

To ask…

He closed his eyes and waited for the door to open again after soft knocks left unanswered and a flustered maid to help him dress.

Deep breath.

In.

_Pathetic little boy-whore…_

Out.

~

“No.”

“I don’t remember asking anything,” Vincent barely raised an eyebrow while sipping carefully on his tea, an earthy blend he favoured for breakfast, icy blue eye focused on his firstborn “I merely stated that you would leave for Weston College in two weeks.”

Ciel was seething in front of him, glaring at his father head on, fearless. On his dead body.

“And I heard you, but I don’t see the point in traveling to Weston for an education I could be provided with in the comfort of my home, close to my family and ready to proceed on our…businesses” The poise was elegant, far too controlled for a boy of thirteen. His words were probably chosen carefully, but no one missed the knife held tight between his fingers. He buttered the toast offered to him by his butler, uncaring of the cutlery suddenly disappearing once set on of the table, Sebastian already bending towards him to refill his cup.

“What is there for me in Weston to find other than pampered sons and stupid traditions? _My_ brother is more than enough, I don’t need that poor imitation of bonding you find so endearing.”

A raspy laugh was smothered on his right.

“And you have yet to explain to us why _I_ should be going, and alone.”

“Why?” Vincent asked with a slight tilt of his head, and Astre was reminded of a snake he’d seen once in a painting, serene and deadly, “Because I say so,” the delicate china was set back on the table “Because I order so,” Sebastian refiled it immediately “and because Her Majesty wishes so.”

Ciel froze in his seat, eyes turning from his father to his silent little brother, unusually startled. It was subtle, but it took him two seconds too long to reply, and Vincent used that breach to his advantage.

“If you can’t live without your brother like the _pampered son_ you are, at least show some dignity and honour Her request. I expect no less of my Heir” A pause, then “Or do you wish for me to change that as well to suit your liking, Ciel?”

That made Astre lift his head up from the egg in front of him and shoot the man an incredulous look. The man didn’t seem to notice though.

Why would he ?

“I will do as Her Majesty wishes, of course, but why _alone_?” Ciel insisted “I don-…”

“Astre is unwell,” Vincent cut, “And as you well know, your aunt Frances asked me to…go out in the world again,” the disgust that simple idea awoke in him was unmistakable “I need your brother here to finally step up, manage the preparations and welcome the guests. You will do your part surrounded by your new _friends_ and Astre will do his _here_.”

“Do I have to call for the seamstress, Father?” Astre suddenly butted in. Vincent turned towards his second son, clearly surprised, but the boy couldn’t have said if it was for having been interrupted or because he had all but forgotten the other twin was there in the first place.

But he _was_. Why couldn’t Vincent _see_ he was ?

“If I am to be relegated to the role of Lady of the House, I may as well put on a dress don’t you think?” The laugh on his left roared to life, followed by the sound of a fall “Nina had been waiting for the occasion for years, I’m sure she’ll come up with interesting designs for you to humiliate me a little more !”

His tone was charmingly sweet, his blue eyes dark with an anger far surpassing his twin’s, and he might have fainted at any moment under the weight of his father’s unblinking, icy stare. He would have normally backed down, but he was exhausted, restless, and hurt.

He was admittedly a lot of things and most of them not pleasant at all, not _enough_ , but he certainly was _not_ invisible.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, all but throwing his napkin on his plate “I have a fencing lesson I need to prepare for.” He carried himself as tall as he could, hands trembling, heart pounding.

_Keep your pride no matter what. Keep your pride no matter what. Keep you-_

“Astre.”

He stopped at the door, fingers twitching reflexively just above the handle.

“Don’t show your face to me again until you have gathered enough common sense to apologize properly. You shame your mother’s memory.”

 _That_ was unfair. Cruel and uncalled for. But nobody said anything. Astre left the room without looking back.

He waited until he was in his room to let himself feel grief.

_Keep your pride no matter what._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm late.  
> BUT it wasn't my fault per say, the chapter has been nearly done for over a month now, but I just couldn't find enough energy to finish it. The virus has had a very nasty effect on the working population and, well...Let's say I'll be happy if I'm not dropping from exhaustion in the next couple of weeks. Social workers, yeay us o/
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that filler. Nothing really interesting compared to what I have in mind, but now the story's on tracks (a miracle, really) I'm gonna have so. much. fun. I'll probably claw at my face more than once, go through three depressions and run out of clean underwear, but I'll do it. 
> 
> But tomorrow. Now I need my bed. 
> 
> Chu~


End file.
